


100 Ways to Say I Love You

by fangirl0430



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Other, Short One Shot, based on the tumblr list, i post when i can or get the urge..., not all relationships are romantic, semi-hiatus, ships mainly based on my preferences, tags will change as i write more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-07-23 17:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7472973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fangirl0430/pseuds/fangirl0430
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't have to say those "three little words" to show someone how much you care. In fact, no one in this bunch seems to say them at all.</p><p>These are the 100 different things they say instead.</p><p>(based on http://p0ck3tf0x.tumblr.com/post/98502010026/one-hundred-ways-to-say-i-love-you)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pull Over. Let Me Drive For A While.

There are no streetlights to cut through the darkness tonight. Only his headlights. And even when he turns on the brights, it isn’t enough to chase away the shadows that seemed to swallow the car whole as it bumps down the road. Steve can’t believe how black it is just outside the window.

Bucharest had been a dead end. Sam had said it was a long shot, but he had hoped. Of course he had. They’ve been off-and-on looking for years now, jumping on every possible lead they could get their hands on. And when Nat’s sources practically dropped this one in their lap, he couldn’t help but indulge that little swell of emotion in his chest that maybe—maybe this would be the one. Maybe they would finally find him.

He’s honestly not even surprised. He doesn’t know why he had even hoped for any different.

Another dead end.

And yet here they are, on the road again, in the pitch dark, heading to Belgrade, to what will most likely be another dead end, and that stupid thing in his chest just _won’t die_.

God, why he continues to drag Sam into this, he’ll never know. The guy’s fast asleep in the passenger seat, head tipped slightly to the side, lips parted and snoring softly, manila folder with what amounts to a few snippets of information on the floor by his feet. He’d fallen asleep a few hours ago, and when all of the radio stations turned into either Romanian or static, the trip became too quiet.

Sam’s wings are in the trunk; Steve’s shield is in the backseat.

He’s not sure what that says about him.

Sam’s a good guy, he knows that. The guy waded into a war for no reason other than to fight beside Captain America. And, after the fight ended and they all somehow made it out alive (how he made it onto that bank instead of drowning, he can only hope), Sam, the good guy that he is, helped Steve look. Look for the man that tried to murder them (more than once, he may add). Let Steve drag him halfway around the world one day and then the rest of the way around the next. Years they’ve been doing this, and yet here he is, sleeping in the passenger seat, approaching the Romanian-Serbian border with him on nothing more than a hopeful few scraps of information.

Here he is.

Here _they_ are.

He feels like Sam and Bucky would get along in an odd sort of way. Buck likes to poke at the nice guys, see how far he can go, and Sam—Sam would go right along with it, he just knows it. Or, Sam would shut that crap down immediately, and Buck would just take that as a challenge. Those two in a car, that would be something to get on camera. He just knows it.

Well… That’s assuming it’s Bucky he finds… Instead of…

He still remembers the way he looked at him right before he fell into the Potomac. Through the haze in his head and the blackness creeping along the edges of his vision, he still remembers his face like it’s ingrained into his mind. The confusion on his brow, the fear in his eyes, that metal fist frozen above his head ready the deliver the final blow, his eyes were so wide, and he _had_ to know him, he _had to._

_You’re my mission._

_You’re. My. Mission._

What if that’s what he finds instead of his friend? What if he finds…

It doesn’t matter. Bucky’s his friend. He’s told himself this so many times. He’ll help him, because Bucky would do the same for him. Bucky _deserves_ the same, if not more.

_His fingers are only an inch away. He can’t reach farther. And the rail breaks. And he screams as he falls and falls and falls and Steve can’t reach him no matter how much super-serum they pumped into his blood and he just stares as he falls and falls because he can’t do anything to save the one goddamn person he—_

“Steve!”

He jerks back to the present just in time to whip the steering wheel to the side. He hadn’t even realized that he’d drifted off the road, but sure enough, he turns just in time to narrowly avoid slamming into a street sign that is fully illuminated by his headlights.

He straightens the car out again, not letting out a breath until he’s got the car comfortably back in his lane and cruising again. He keeps his eyes glued on the road, not looking at Sam, who he knows is now wide awake.

The car is dead silent except for the thrum of the engine and hum of the tires on the asphalt. He doesn’t dare to make a sound.

“Why don’t you let me drive for a bit?” Sam says softly, filling the silence.

“I’m fine,” Steve tries to assure him, eyes still on the road. “Just drifted a little.”

“Steve come on…” and he’s using that tone. That tone that says that he knows better.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Steve cuts him off, maybe a little too harshly. That little thing in his chest shrinks back a little, and he tries to breathe it back out, let the tension out of his shoulders. “I’m fine,” he says gentler this time.

“Don’t lie to me, Rogers,” Sam says. “I’ve put up with too much shit for that.” And Steve is about to protest, but the words die on his tongue with any excuse he could even hope to come up with. “ **Pull over. Let me drive for awhile.** ”

Steve nods his head, slows the car and pulls it over onto the shoulder. He won’t argue with the man, so he gets out of the car without argument, enjoying the moment of stretching out his cramped legs before getting back in the passenger seat, sliding the seat all the way back to give himself more room. It’s only a minute of adjusting seats and mirrors before Sam pulls off of the shoulder and gets the car back up to speed.

“Wake me up in a few hours,” Steve says, knowing he won’t fall asleep anyways; he never does. Not when his mind is like this. So he makes himself comfortable and turns his head to look out the window, watching the shadows play off of each other outside the window in silence. He sometimes wonders if Sam hears it too, if he hears the echoes of the screams in quiet moments like this, when the silence is almost as loud as his memories.

He spends the next three hours with his mind trapped somewhere between snow-covered mountains and a debris-filled river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a first chapter? Just had to start it off with a little angst because I DO WHAT I WANT (mwahahaha)!
> 
> As implied by the title of the work, my final goal is to have this be a collection of 100 one shots based on the "100 Ways To Say I Love You" Tumblr post that I linked in the summary. I'm not sure how long it will take and how long waits will be between posts, but I am determined to finish this, no matter how long it takes. Hopefully, you guys will stick with me through it!


	2. It Reminded Me of You

Steve has seen the commercials for it a few times on the television. “Life Alert”, the commercial always proclaims. It’s the same every time: a few horribly-angled shots of an elderly woman or man lying on the floor acting (quite terribly) as if they are in excruciating pain, over-used and dumb-looking filters overlaying each shot, so much bad acting, almost worse than his own acting back in the day.

Now don’t get him wrong. The invention is a good idea, and he recognizes that.

It’s just that the _commercial_ … The commercial is so bad that it almost makes him cringe.

And if someone else is sitting there watching the tv with him, he waits for the comment every time that commercial is on.

Bucky will say something along the lines of, “Man, if we had this back in the day, I would have gotten one for you so I wouldn’t’ve had to hunt your ass down every time you decided to pick a fight in some alley. Let the police handle it. Would’ve saved me a few split knuckles.”

Sam and Tony always go for, “It says it’s for senior citizens. Maybe we should start investing now for you, Rogers. You’re getting up there in age.” Wanda always chuckles at that one. Steve just rolls his eyes.

Natasha always just shoots him a smirk. She, instead, will make comments during missions, always suggesting he invest in the product whenever he takes a harder fall.

He’s just gotten home from a particularly rough mission, more bruises and scrapes and sore muscles than he’s felt in a long time. He’s practically dragging himself towards his room in the tower, already picturing that soft bed he’s just going to fall onto. Nat had made more “Life Alert” comments than usual, probably because he got beat to shit this time around.

But when he walks in and finds a little white box sitting on the bedspread, a red bow tied around it and a note beside it, he’s curious enough to put his plans of sleeping on pause for a moment.

“ **It reminded me of you.** –Nat” the note reads.

And when he opens the box to find a little white button with the words “Life Alert” written across the back in bold red letters, he laughs.

He’ll get back at her later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this one is rather short. I may or may not have seen a Life Alert commercial when I started debating what to write about for this one, and the idea just kind-of got stuck in my head. I promise the next one will be substantially longer!
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Let me know your thoughts in the comments!


	3. No, no, it's my treat.

“Tony, I really don’t have any money.”

“ **No, no, it’s my treat.** Come on. You’ll love it.”

Tony ushers Bruce inside the door of the frozen yogurt shop, a little bell on the door tinkling as it closes behind them. The place is all bright colors and curved edges, pictures and odd little characters decorating the walls. In the middle of the room is a circular island, inside of which stands the cashier, and on which there are different kinds of bowls and cups, some of which have large waffle shells in them. The back wall of the shop, behind the island, is lined with frozen yogurt machines, over ten different flavors proclaimed by colorful signs. Along the side wall, a counter is lined with all sorts of small containers and bowls, all filled with different colors and ingredients.

Bruce has never been to one of these stores before, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do.

Luckily, Tony moves him right along, guiding him to the back wall where the yogurt flavors are and leaving him there for a moment. He’s faintly aware that the kid behind the cash register and most of the other people in the store are staring at them, probably recognizing Tony. He’s barely had enough time to glance at the flavors when Tony shoves a cardboard bowl in his hands.

“Pick whatever flavors you want. Get however much you want. Toppings are over there. Again get as much as you want. Fill’er up, and come to the cash register for the weigh-in when you’re happy.” Bruce looks at the man, eyes slightly wide and still slightly confused, but Tony just grins at him and pointedly walks over to one of the ice cream machines. “My personal favorite flavor is ‘taro root’. I don’t know quite what it is, but I love it.” He sticks the bowl under the dispenser and pulls down on the lever. The ice cream is slightly purple as it slowly crawls out of the nozzle. “I get it every time. If you want to try some of the flavors before filling up your bowl, there are small little white cups behind you on the counter.” Tony finishes filling up his bowl and then he turns away, walking over to the toppings and considering them carefully, leaving Bruce to stare for a moment. The kid behind the counter still looks star-struck, to say the least. Bruce has to hand it to him, if Tony’s noticed, he hasn’t let on. He’s probably just used to it.

Bruce shrugs and goes over to the dispensers, browsing some of the labels. The flavors range from classics like “vanilla” and “chocolate” all the way to bizarre flavors like “cake batter” and “cappuccino”. Bruce uses the little white cups to try a few, but in the end, he just ends up going with a classic vanilla, filling up his bowl just under halfway. He joins Tony over by the toppings.

It has to be the widest assortment of toppings Bruce has ever seen. Candies to fresh fruits, little balls filled with colorful liquid to cereals, chunks of brownies to what he thinks are miniature balls of mochi. There’s so much that it’s almost a little overwhelming. He doesn’t even know where to begin.

“You’ve got to try some of these,” Tony points to the bowl of little liquid-filled balls, maybe the size of small marbles. Tony uses the spoon to dump some of the red ones in his own bowl. “They’re great. They pop in your mouth, and I’m not gonna lie, it’s a bit weird the first time you try one. But they’re _so_ good. Oh, and these,” he points to the mochi balls, “are good too. A bit more of a texture element than anything. But you have to eat them fast or else the ice cream will make them cold and hard.” He uses the spoon to dump a few of the green ones in his own bowl. Bruce still hasn’t moved to put anything on his. He’s just watching Tony, almost curious what the billionaire will do next. He sprinkles some crushed up candy on it (Butterfingers possibly?) and a few other ingredients. He then goes over to a line of what look like chocolate dispensers and drenches his whole bowl in golden caramel, finishing it off with a swirl of whipped cream on top.

Bruce has to wonder for a moment how old this man really is.

He adds a few toppings to his own bowl, putting a little bit of the two things Tony suggested and some other fruits and candies. He drizzles a bit of hot fudge on top, and then walks his bowl over to the counter in the middle of the store. Tony has his bowl on what looks like a metal scale, so Bruce puts his own on there next to Tony’s. The number on the scale jumps up and then settles to 15.3 ounces. The kid behind the cash register fumbles a bit, pressing a few buttons, his hands visibly shaking a bit. Tony just smiles at the kid, probably wishing he’d chill out a bit. The kid rattles out a total, and Tony hands him a credit card, the kid swipes it, grunts and swipes it again, then hands it back. He sticks a colorful spoon in each bowl and wishes them both a good day. Tony grabs both of their bowls and settles down at one of the tables in the corner. The table wobbles ever-so-slightly, and the plastic chairs are hard and the same colors as the rest of the place. Bruce doesn’t mind at all.

“So,” Tony says, spooning a bite into his mouth, chewing for a moment, and then swallowing. “Have you considered my offer?”

“What offer?” Bruce asks, digging his spoon into the frozen yogurt and scooping out a bite with a few pieces of fruit on it. He sticks it in his mouth, considering it. He has to admit that it’s pretty good. The frozen yogurt is sweet, but not sickly sweet, almost the slightest bit tart. The fruits are a bit sweeter than they should be, probably from that sugar-based liquid that they were sitting in, but it’s not enough to overwhelm the flavor of the fruits themselves. And the little bits of candy leave a nice crunch. He swallows and spoons another bite into his mouth.

“My offer for you to stay in the tower with me,” Tony says. Bruce glances up at him in shock as the other man takes another bite.

“You were serious about that?” Bruce asks, incredulous. How could he have been serious? Who would invite _the Hulk_ the live in their huge skyscraper that obviously cost a _lot_ of money?

“Of course I was,” Tony says. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because the other guy tends to thrive on property damage, and I’m not sure having me in the middle of New York City for an extended period of time is a good idea. I was planning on leaving as soon as possible, heading back into hiding…” although he obviously wasn’t hiding that well before. That woman, Natasha, had found him pretty easily. He still feels a slight stab of guilt for what happened on the Helicarrier with her.

“I can handle it,” Tony shrugs, taking another bite. “And it seems like you can too, even if you don’t quite believe it.”

“Tony that’s ridiculous,” Bruce sighs. “I couldn’t control the other guy even if I tried—”

“Bullshit,” Tony says. “From what I’ve seen in the last few days, you’ve got a pretty damn good hold on it.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure Director Fury would agree,” Bruce deadpans. Tony waves it off.

“That doesn’t count. We figured out early on that that was Loki manipulating _all of us_ through the scepter. That wasn’t your fault.”

“But that doesn’t prevent something similar from happening again,” Bruce says. “This time in the middle of a populated city instead of in the middle of nowhere.”

“Yeah, because another Norse god with mind control powers is gonna come through a portal and make us all a little pissy at each other again,” Tony says.

“Stranger things have happened,” Bruce mumbles, stirring his frozen yogurt absent-mindedly before taking another bite.

“Look, Bruce,” Tony says. “You’re a brilliant guy. You’re an expert in your field, and I want nothing more than to work with you. Once the tower is all fixed up, you can have your own floor and research level. Heck, you could have five of your own floors for all I care. All the toys and equipment you could ever ask for. You could continue your research, start new research, not do research at all, whatever you want. Hell Bruce, you’ll be safe. No one’s gonna touch you if you stick with me. You’ll be free.”

“And what’s the catch?” Bruce raises and eyebrow, taking another bite of his frozen yogurt.

“No catch,” Tony says. “No strings attached. No ultimatums. Nothing. I just want another genius around.” Tony smirks, taking another bite. Bruce considers it. It’s really not a bad deal. Sure, he’s still not completely on board with staying in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world, but if he learned anything in these last few days, Tony won’t push him farther than he think he can handle. Tony’s a good guy, whether he chooses to believe it or not. Hell, the guy brought him out for _ice cream_. They could have had this conversation anywhere, but Tony chose this place. Bruce isn’t going to lie; he likes being around Tony. He likes being treated like just another normal guy. Tony won’t tiptoe around him, won’t act like Bruce is fragile, won’t be openly afraid of him. It’s nice to feel _normal_ for a change, to see something other than fear or nervousness when he looks someone in the eye. If anything, Tony almost looks _curious_ when he looks at Bruce, like he wants to help and understand.

Staying in the tower may be exactly what he needs…

He takes another bite of his ice cream, intrigued by the barely concealed eagerness behind Tony’s calm and controlled expression.

“No sharp objects?” Bruce asks, smirking back. Tony snorts.

“You, sir,” Tony points his pink spoon at Bruce, “strike a hard bargain. But…” He thoughtfully takes another bite of his ice cream. “I may be able to make a concession on that front.” Another bite. Bruce takes a bite too, and he notices that his frozen yogurt is starting to get a little soupy. “So, is that your way of giving me a yes?” Bruce smiles and takes a dramatic pause, just for the hell of it. That’s when he realizes something.

“You brought me out for ice cream to loosen me up, didn’t you?” he asks.

“Did it work?” Tony grins.

“It just might have.”

Tony lets out a celebratory whoop, and Bruce laughs. Yeah, this is exactly what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to have my Science Bros in here, and this seemed like a cute way to do it. Of course, Tony would be in the chapter offering to treat someone to something, and Brucie seemed like the perfect person to treat. And I may have had frozen yogurt a few days back. So yeah, it all kind of came together to create this chapter.
> 
> Fun fact: Tony's bowl is exactly what I get when I go to Mochi's. Yep. Judge me as you will.
> 
> As always, let me know what you think in the comments. I love to hear from you guys!


	4. Come Here. Let Me Fix It.

Loki is sitting in the workshop reading when he hears the telltale sound of thrusters approaching from outside. The sound is still far off, so he keeps reading, knowing he can get through another page or two before Stark makes it back.

After his escape from Asgard, which happened to take the form of getting stabbed and faking his own death, he had managed to muster up enough energy to teleport himself from that god-forsaken planet. How he had ended up on Midgard in the very building he had utilized in his attempt to take over the realm in front of the very man he threw out a window, he doesn’t know. All he knows is that he was still bleeding profusely, he was essentially unconscious, and Stark, for whatever reason, had decided to help him. And while his pride hadn’t appreciated the assistance of the mortal (he may or may not have growled at the man a few times… He really doesn’t completely remember), healing would have been significantly harder had the man not stopped the bleeding. Hours after, when he was back of his own mind and not bleeding all over everything, Stark had of course questioned him to no end. It had taken a lot of effort to convince the man that he meant this realm no harm and that he only needed time to recover before he would be on his way again. Stark obviously had wanted to hand him over to SHIELD (why he hadn’t done that from the start, Loki would never understand) or call Thor somehow, but Loki had managed to convince him otherwise. Though, it took putting himself in debt to the man (a single debt to a mortal couldn’t hurt, as Stark would probably die before he got a chance to call it in) and swearing that he would not do any harm to Midgard and its inhabitants while he was there. He didn’t particularly like the terms, but he had grudgingly agreed. He really hadn’t had it in him at the time to try to teleport somewhere else. The first time had already drained him a bit too much. He needed time to recover.

Tuning into the sound of the thrusters again, he realizes that there is a slight sputtering sound, like the mechanisms are beginning to fail, and if he really listens carefully, he can just make out the sound of grinding metal.

“Jarvis?”

_“How can I be of assistance, Mr. Liesmith?”_

“How injured is Stark this time?”

_“Quite.”_

The fact that the AI hadn’t gone into specifics shows just how bad Stark’s injuries truly must be. Loki sighs and puts his book down, heading upstairs to grab some supplies. Loki found that he could roam these levels of the tower freely, as Stark always kept them private from all others, so he had no fear of being discovered. The few supplies he managed to collect during his time here he keeps in his room, sorted and managed in drawers and on shelves. He grabs everything he could need for a basic healing potion and starts heading back to the workshop.

If he’s being honest with himself, he hasn’t completely hated his time trapped here. Stark is…interesting to say the least. He is more intelligent than the Midgardians he had come into contact with before, his mind surpassing even quite a few Asgardians he knew. He is one of the few people that he has found can keep up with him, even get ahead of him at times (very rare times). The conversations they have are always intriguing, watching the way Stark’s scientific understanding of the world matches and clashes with his own. The man’s curiosity reminds him of himself decades earlier, when he was still young and naïve and trying to learn about the universe and its secrets. But Stark’s curiosity doesn’t strike him in a naïve way; in fact, Loki would go so far as to say that the man is anything _but_ naïve. No, Stark’s curiosity is raw, like an insatiable hunger and desire to learn everything he can about his world and others, to better himself and those around him. It’s interesting, to see that desire in someone else and want to fulfill it, to help Stark understand (some of it may just be Loki showing off, and he makes sure Stark thinks that’s the main reason he talks with him the way he does). And if he even slightly enjoys the man’s company… Well, he would never admit it aloud.

By the time he makes it back to the workshop, ingredients in hand, Stark is just arriving, his metal boots clanking on the concrete when he lands. Stark stumbles where he lands, grabbing onto a table beside him with one metal-clad hand to steady himself. Loki is taken aback by the state of the man’s armor. Every inch of the armor is dented and scratched, deep gashes running through the chest plate like long claw marks, an entire gauntlet missing and exposing his arm (that arm is hanging limply at his side and has multiple gashes that have, for the most part, stopped bleeding), one leg’s plating dented to such an extent that is looks as if it had been grabbed and crumpled like paper. The blue lights in the armor flicker like they’re seconds from shutting down.

“Stark?” Loki asks when the man hasn’t moved from gripping the table. He tries not to sound worried, but if a bit of it creeps into his voice, he won’t acknowledge it. He takes a few steps towards Stark, and at the same moment, there’s a mechanical whining sound, a bit too much grinding for the mechanism to be working properly. But the faceplate lifts, and Loki can’t stop his eyes from widening slightly. The side of his face is covered in blood where some of it is still dripping down from a large cut on his forehead, and one of his eyes is almost swollen shut. Loki’s sure that beneath the blood there are more bruises and cuts that he just can’t see right now.

“If you think this is bad,” Stark says, his voice slurring ever so slightly, “you should see the other guy.” And then his legs crumple beneath him, and Loki drops the supplies and catches him just before he hits the floor, slowing his fall enough to stop any further damage to the man. _How could he let himself get hurt like this? Stupid, stupid mortal._ Loki helps the man into a sitting position, the table behind him serving to keep Stark upright. The armor is still whirring and grinding.

“How do I get this off of you?” Loki asks, crouching down beside the man.

“Slow down, princess,” Stark slurs, a bit of blood on his teeth when he grins at him, his eyes slightly unfocussed. He probably has a concussion. “You haven’t even taken me on a proper date yet, and you’re already trying to get my clothes off?”

“Stark,” Loki growls, not wanting to deal with this right now. He has no idea to what extent the man is injured, and the sooner he finds out, the sooner he can figure out how to help (Why does he even want to help?).

“Jarvis?” Stark calls.

_“I’m sorry, sir,”_ the AI says. _“The armor is too damaged for remote removal.”_

“Course it is,” Stark mumbles. With the still-armored hand, Stark reaches up to the side of his head, the metal parts clinking against one another has he motions in a general area. “Should be a release here somewhere.”

Loki gets to work, and the process is slow. Figuring out how to remove each piece of armor is difficult and time consuming, especially considering many of the mechanisms aren’t working anymore. He ends up ripping off a few pieces. Certain movements make Stark wince or hiss in pain, so Loki takes special consideration of those areas. He’s not even going to approach the exposed arm yet. He knows it’s dislocated, if not broken. But that’s the least concerning of the injuries. Loki is still worried about the man’s head. He’s still bleeding there (like most head wounds tend to do), his eyes still haven’t focused correctly, and many times Loki has been forced to start talking, trying to keep the man awake. Stark just grins at him.

“Why’re you here?” Stark slurs, his head tipping to the side to look Loki in the eye.

“Would you rather I leave you here?” Loki asks, almost sneers. Stark’s face scrunches up, and he grunts as Loki pulls off the chest plate.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” Stark says, words still slurring slightly, but his eyes are the clearest they’ve been yet, watching Loki carefully. Loki huffs, rolling his eyes at the man’s dramatics. Stark raises his uninjured hand to his face, moving his hair from where it’s plastered to his forehead with blood and sweat. Almost immediately, his hisses and yanks his hand away, and blood starts to flow from the wound a bit quicker. “Son of a—”

“ **Come here** ,” Loki says, motioning for the man to lean forward a bit. “ **Let me fix it.** ” Stark raises an eyebrow as if to protest, but then he must think better of it because he leans forward slightly, and Loki positions his hands. One hand resting above his limp, exposed arm (definitely broken, not dislocated), the other on the side of his head, above his ear, in his hair.

Centuries of using the spell on Thor and his companions makes it second nature, and it’s been a while since he’s had to use the words to do it. Knowing his magic is still recovering though, he decides to mumble the words, letting them guide his magic to the right places. The ancient language rolls off his tongue easily, and it doesn’t take long to get the job done, healing the bleeding cut and his arm and clearing Stark’s head a bit of the haze currently surrounding it thanks to what was definitely a concussion. He realizes that, at some point, Stark had leaned into his hands, and he is now humming contentedly.

“Magic is so freaking convenient,” Stark says, not even trying to move away from his touch even though he seems to have figured out that Loki has finished. Oddly enough, Loki doesn’t pull away either. In fact, he moves his hand into the man’s hair, running his fingers through places where blood has matted into the strands. It’s grounding, in a way that makes the slight buzz in his head less annoying.

_Why would he use that much magic on this man?_

With his free hand, he reaches back to the pile of discarded magic supplies and grabs the roll of paper towels he had decided to bring, ripping off a few squares and using them to gently wipe the blood off of the man’s face. He realizes the towels would probably do more good if they were wet, but he can’t will himself to stand up just yet. His head is still spinning from using so much of his limited magic, and if he’s being honest, he simply doesn’t want to get up yet. It's almost as if he's afraid that this mortal will die if he leaves him for only a moment, as if his fragile life will expire in that short time. He's knows it's ridiculous; he's already healed most of the man's injuries, and Stark is still young. But a small part of him remembers telling Thor something about a mortal's life being no more than a moment, a heartbeat, that he'll never be ready. In this moment, he realizes how cruel those words were, and he fears their truth.

Stark leans in further, and Loki’s hand makes it’s way to the back of Stark’s head, still lightly massaging his fingers through his hair, and Stark is still humming lowly as Loki attempts to clean off some of the blood on the man's face. His mind, is nowhere near the task at hand, though, and he has no idea what he’s doing when he sets down the bloody rags and lightly tugs on Stark’s hair to get him to look up at him. All he can think about is that Stark is alive now, not approaching Death herself, and part of him wants to be greedy with this man's life, to have it as his own. Then Stark’s eyes, focused now, meet his own, and there’s that curiosity, lingering just below the surface, strangely intriguing, drawing him closer, and he knows he's beyond reason at the moment, and he really couldn't care less. It only takes him a moment to close the distance, and at the same time that he tastes blood and salt on Stark’s lips, the other man flinches, making Loki decide that maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he was wrong. But then Stark is kissing him back, deepening it, parting their lips and letting the kiss turn desperate with tongue and lips and teeth, and gods it’s been so long since he’s done this, too long. His hand is still tangled in Stark’s hair, and he uses that to angle Stark just so, taking control of the kiss, slinging his leg over the man’s waist so that he’s straddling him, using the extra height to his advantage. Stark’s hands drift up the back of his shirt, touching almost reverently, completely different from the way his mouth moves against Loki's own. It's enough to give Loki pause and allow him to pull back slightly, both of their breaths ragged, Stark’s lips red, his pupils blown wide, smiling.

“I’m gonna regret this in the morning, aren’t I?” Stark breathes, already yanking Loki’s shirt over his head. And then Loki goes to work on Stark’s neck, kissing and biting the sensitive, blood-coated skin there, relishing in the sound the mortal makes when he kisses a new bruise on his neck and rolls his hips just right.

“Yeah I’m totally gonna regret this tomorrow,” Stark moans. Loki grins and captures the man’s lips again in his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, had to get these two geniuses in here.  
> My mindset here: "let me fix it" of course brings our resident genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist to mind, but what if he's not the one fixing something? What if someone's fixing something for him? And then I read something somewhere about Loki being afraid of Tony's mortality, and this happened. Inspiration is an odd thing, right?  
> Anyways, as always let me know your thoughts in the comments. I'm happy to see I have a few people following this story, and I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoy writing it!


	5. I'll Walk You Home

Bucky’s head is swimming when he comes to, his body feels heavy, his ribs and chest are tender, and his jaw’s stiff. He blinks his eyes a few times, giving them a second to focus, but opening them hurts so he shuts them tight again, groaning at the sudden headache. Wherever he’s lying, it stinks like rotting garbage, and the ground is wet and hard beneath him. Through the ringing in his ears, he makes out the sound of a car rumbling by far off behind him.

He and Steve were walking back from class, like any other day. He remembers that clearly. But what happened after, how he ended up on the ground, he’s not so sure. The stiffness in his jaw tells him he must’ve been hit, probably hard enough to knock him out. But what actually happened…

His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and he’s having a hard time putting together a clear thought. Well, that’s a lie, because one thought is bouncing around inside his skull non-stop.

_Where’s Steve?_

That’s the only reason he presses his hands against the cold ground and forces himself up. He’s only on his hands and knees when he has to stop for a second. If he thought the headache was bad before, it only got worse, the throbbing turning into a steady pounding now. God, he hates this. Maybe he should just sit here a second, get his bearings…

_Where’s Steve?_

He groans and pushes himself to his feet. His whole body feels like lead, the ground welcoming him back with open arms. He leans against a wall next to him for support while he waits for the world to stop spinning and his head to stop feeling like it’s about to explode.

He’s in an alley, which explains the smell. He can hear the occasional car go by far behind him, and besides the sound of the city and the ringing in his ears, it’s quiet. Trashcans, boxes, and garbage line the alleyway, and there’s a high fence twenty or so feet further in.

He pushes himself off of the wall, stumbling a little, but steady enough to walk, even if he looks a little canned. His steps echo off the walls.

“Steve?” he calls, glancing around the alley. Bucky has a feeling he was hit in the chest too, because yeah, it’s a little painful when he breathes. “Steve?” There’s a groan and some movement about halfway to that fence. Bucky makes his way over there, only coming close to eating asphalt once. “Steve? Is that you?”

Sure enough, curled up on the ground, barely conscious, is Steve Rogers. Well, a very bruised, very bloody version of him. Bucky drops to his knees in front of Steve, who just groans and curls in on himself further.

“It’s me bud, it’s me,” he says.

Steve shifts slightly, groaning again, but he turns his head towards Bucky, and he can see that it takes the other man a considerable amount of effort to open his eyes. One of them is blackened and almost swollen shut. There are cuts all over his face and blood dripping down his nose (it looks almost dried now), he’s got a bruise on one arm (is that the shape of a hand?) and scratches on his knuckles, and that’s all he can immediately see. He knows there’s probably a lot worse hiding beneath his clothes.

“Damn,” Bucky says under his breath.

“That bad?” Steve says, his small smirk replaced by a grimace the moment Bucky starts helping him up into a sitting position.

“Did ya just let’em beat on you?” Bucky asks, and then it starts to come back to him. They were walking home, and four guys just came out of nowhere, cornered them in the alley. Bucky, of course, jumped in front to keep them off Steve, but he was no match against the four of them. He remembers getting a few hits in, taking a few in return, and then… Then he was waking up in the alley with a stiff jaw and a pounding headache.

“I had’em on the ropes,” Steve mumbles, his back now against the wall.

“Uh huh,” Bucky says, barely paying the comment any mind, his eyes looking Steve up and down, still looking for injuries he knows he won’t see right now.

“You don’t have to look so worried, Buck,” Steve says. Bucky’s still staring at him, still searching.

“Uh huh.” But he has every right to be worried out of his god-damn mind. This is Steve. Steve, with asthma and diabetes and heart problems and anemia and color-blindness and a susceptibility to every freaking sickness on this planet and he has a reason to be worried. He tries not to treat him like it, but he still has a bone-deep fear that all it will take is a strong wind to blow him over and break him in half. And here he is, beat bloody and pretending like he’s not. This was more than just a punch or two; this was a beating. So of course he’s worried. Steve’s just lucky he’s not checking for broken bones right now.

“You don’t look so great yourself,” Steve says, eyeing what Bucky has to assume is a bruise the size of Texas on his jaw and maybe some other stuff Bucky can’t really feel at the moment.

“I’ll live,” he shrugs. “What was all that anyways?” Steve rubs the back of his neck, a little nervous habit.

“The big guy, the one who couldn’t stop beatin’ his gums,” Steve says. Yeah, Bucky remembers him. He kept preaching about Steve needing to mind his own business or something. “Between classes, I caught him trying to force himself on a dame in the washroom, and I told him to get off. Dean walked in right when he was about to raise his fists against me. Said he’d come for me later and left. Didn’t see him after that, so I’d thought he’d just been blowin’ hot air. Guess I was wrong.”

“And the doll?” Bucky asks.

“Ran the second his attention went from her to me,” Steve shrugs. “Kinda what I was hoping for. Didn’t see her after that either, but I’d reckon she got out okay, so I’ll be fine. I’m just sorry you got dragged into the middle of it.”

Bucky isn’t sure what to say. He wants to strangle Steve for doing this to himself, for getting into fights when he knows he couldn’t land a punch to save his life. But then he thinks of some poor girl getting cornered, finding no one else there to help, and maybe he can’t blame Steve for stepping in. Even if he doesn’t like it. Bucky blows a snort out of his nose.

“Can you stand up?” Bucky says instead, using the wall behind them to pull himself up, blinking away the momentary dizziness.

“Course I can,” Steve mutters, pressing one hand flat on the ground and one on the wall, pushing up. He manages to get his feet under him, but then Bucky sees his knees start to wobble and he knows he’s going down, so he reaches out just in time to stop him from hitting the pavement. His face is white. “M’ fine,” he grunts, and yeah, like Bucky’s gonna believe that. He bends down, slinging Steve’s arm around his own shoulders and pulls him up, carefully wrapping his own arm around Steve’s middle. “Buck—”

“ **I’ll walk you home** , okay?” Bucky says. Steve’s leaning heavily on him, and maybe Bucky isn’t the steadiest on his feet at the moment, but his chances of getting them somewhere without further injury are higher than Steve’s. Steve looks him in the eye, looking to protest, but he sees that stubborn fire die down a bit, and Steve just nods his head, looking back ahead.

They walk the remaining blocks like that, Bucky basically carrying Steve, Steve’s bruised and bloody chin held high.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to get some pre-serum Steve and Bucky in here. As always, Steve is a good person and gets his butt whooped because of it, and Bucky is there to back him up (even if he gets knocked out by a solid punch to the jaw). My poor babies... Also, I may have done a bit too much research on 40s slang, as you may have noticed...
> 
> In other news, I think I finally figured out how I'm going to "regularly" upload this fic. Currently, I have a Word document that I'm writing this story in, and I just finished writing Chapter 15. I plan to always be at least 10 chapters ahead, that way if I fall behind and/or don't have time to write, I will always have something to upload for you guys. Besides that, every time I finish writing a chapter, I will upload a chapter. So, I just wrote 15, so I uploaded 5. When I finish 16, I'll upload 6. And so on... My plan is to never go more than a week without uploading a chapter, even if that means "falling behind" on my plan. But I think I've been pretty good about uploading thus far. :)
> 
> As always, let me know your thoughts in the comments. I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter.


	6. Have A Good Day At Work

“ _Cuz I’m a problem child,_ ” he sings under his breath, even after the music has shut off and the door to his workshop has opened. Tony doesn’t even have to look to know its Pepper coming to check up on him. She does every morning that he ends up in here, like clockwork. He does glance at the time on the computer screen off to his right.

_7:05, on the nose._

“Good morning,” he grins, gently touching the soldering iron to the busted circuit joint. The right arm of the Mark 43 armor has been acting up, so he’s giving it a bit of attention.

“How long have you been up?” she asks. He hears her bare feet on the concrete padding towards him.

“Few hours,” he shrugs, fixing another circuit. _6 hours isn’t that long, right?_ “You know me, always working.” She hums non-committedly from behind him, and then her hands are rubbing up his back, over his shoulders, around to his chest, ghosting over the spot where the reactor used to sit and where the skin is still over-sensitive, even over a year later. Her arms loop around his neck, and she’s resting her head on his shoulder, watching what he’s doing.

“Right,” she says quietly, not going any further with that line of thought. Ever since the whole Mandarin incident, Tony’s gotten better about over-working himself like he was. Very rarely will he spend nights in the workshop, even if it takes Pep coming in and dragging him out at 2am. The panic attacks have gotten better, especially since he figured out how to deal with the anxiety. He doesn’t obsessively build suits anymore; he only has the Mark 43 and a few older backups.

But he still can’t get over the nightmares. Every once in a while, he wakes up in a cold sweat with not enough air in his lungs and the smell of cave water lingering in his nose. Sometimes it’s Pepper falling, his fingers just not reaching far enough, the fire waiting far below, and he wakes up with a scream trapped behind a clenched jaw. Other times, it’s just black, black, black, the suit is like a cold metal coffin, and he can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t hear the tendrils of the explosion reaching out to grab ahold of him, and it’s too quiet, too dark, he can’t die like this.

When he wakes up in the middle of the night, Pepper sound asleep next to him and his heart thumping in his chest, then and only then, he’ll indulge that need to work. So he’ll climb out of bed, making sure not to disturb her, and come down to his workshop, blasting his music to drown out the memories.

She comes down to find him every morning, always wrapping her arms around him, bringing him back. He leans his head against hers, putting the soldering iron back in the holder and bringing his hands up to rest on top of hers. Rough callouses against soft skin.

“What was it this time?” she asks quietly, her fingers intertwining with his. He closes his eyes, trying to force the memories away again, rubbing small circles on her hands to ground himself.

“Afghanistan,” he says. _They’re cutting into him again, damned and determined to put that chunk of metal back into him no matter how much he thrashes and screams. Yinsen is begging him to stop fighting, to let him work, but then there’s water in his nose, in his mouth, in his lungs, and when he comes up for air everything is flames and smoke and screams and gunfire tearing through him—_

Pepper’s fingers tighten slightly in his, reassuringly, and he didn’t even realize how tightly he was holding her hands in his own. He forces his muscles to relax again, letting the tension drain out of him like water, from top to bottom. Breathe in... Hold it... Breathe out... Breathe in... Hold it—

“Tony,” she mumbles in his ear, and he knows that tone of voice. That’s her “I’m worried about you” voice, the one she uses when she has to drag him to bed at 2am.

“I know, I know,” he groans, running his hands up and down her arms. “I’m trying Pep. I really am. It’s just…” he trails off, his eyes locking on some non-existent point ahead of him. _It’s just…_ “Some nights… some nights are harder than others. And I know you don’t like it when I do this to myself but… Sometimes it’s the only thing that helps, that gets rid of the nightmares and the memories. And I’m sorry Pep, I really am. But I’ve tried talking to all the specialists, I’ve tried lying in bed and waiting for sleep, I’ve tried everything. But this… this helps.”

“I get it, Tony,” she says gently. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I just wish you’d let me help you.” His lips unintentionally twitch down, and he doesn’t like the idea of unloading all of his baggage on her, burdening her with everything that keeps him up at night. He knows she just wants to help, but god, he doesn’t want to do that to her. Not to her. He intertwines their fingers again, turning and pressing a kiss to her strawberry blond hair as an answer. She just sighs. “I’m gonna go take a shower and then head to the office. You wanna come? Happy misses you, and you haven’t met the new receptionist yet. He’s a huge Iron Man fan and probably only applied for the job to get the opportunity to meet you. He’s a sweet guy. You’d make his day.”

“As fun as that sounds,” Tony chuckles, “I’ve got some stuff to finish here, and Steve said something about a team meeting today. You know how that goes. Kumbaya and all that. I’ll take a raincheck on that shower, though.”

“Only if you get some of that paperwork I brought finished,” she says. He smirks at her, and she presses a kiss to his head before sliding her hands out of his. This time, he turns to watch her go as she walks away. He realizes that she’s wearing his t-shirt from last night, the shirt a bit baggy on her, black lace underwear barely visible. He admires the view for a moment as she all but struts away, feet padding on the concrete, long legs…

“ **Have a good day at work** ,” he calls after her.

“Have fun at the Kumbaya,” she calls over her shoulder. He snorts. _As if._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I love Pepperony to death, and when I found out they "broke up" in Civil War, my heart just ripped in half. No lie, when Tony said they were taking a break, my chest constricted a bit, and I wanted to cry for poor Tony... I hope they are okay by the next movie, because I hate how everything Tony holds dear keeps getting ripped away from him, and I always loved how Pep and Tony interact with each other...
> 
> So yeah, this is one of my OTPs. This one-shot takes place between Iron Man 3 and Age of Ultron.
> 
> Also, the whole "Kumbaya" thing is something that my older brother says when referring to cheesy/stupid group activities, and it sorta felt like something Tony would say. So yeah, that whole thing is sorta a little nod to my brother.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you guys and see what you think. Comment your thoughts and let me know what you did (and didn't) like!


	7. I Dreamt About You Last Night

Bucky has been avoiding him all day, though Steve has no idea why.

Every morning, both he and Bucky are up at the crack of dawn. Steve blames the fact that his mind still works on military time even after seventy years in the ice. Bucky never explicitly says why he insists on being awake so early as well, but Steve has a feeling that no matter how much better he gets, there is still that small amount of Hydra conditioning in him that he can’t get rid of. He and Bucky had made the best of the situation, deciding to get up and go jogging every morning before the crowds really begin to overtake the streets of New York.

This morning, Bucky didn’t show.

Steve, of course concerned, reasoned that maybe Bucky had a rough night, and that sleeping in would do the man some good.

But when he got back to the Tower, Bucky was in the gym beating on a punching bag, his metal arm making an odd slapping sound when it hits the bag. Steve had asked why Bucky hadn’t joined him for their usual run; Bucky had mumbled something about changing up his routine, and when Steve made to join him, Bucky had made a quick escape, never once meeting Steve’s eyes as he rushed out of the room.

Later, when the Avengers currently present in the Tower (Nat, Clint, Sam, Bucky, and Steve) sat down to have lunch, Bucky was absent. The same happened for dinner (though they had been joined by Tony who had returned to the Tower after a board meeting).

It wasn’t until Steve was lying in his bed, all of these thoughts hitting him at once, that he realized Bucky had been avoiding him all day. Maybe he was being ridiculous; Bucky’s life didn’t revolve around Steve, so he didn’t need to be around him all the time. But the thought still struck Steve as odd, because every time he passed Bucky in the hallway, the other man never once looked at him, only mumbling a greeting before hurrying on. It worried Steve, and he feared that his suspicions were correct.

The desire to find out is what brings him to Bucky’s door at one in the morning, hands wringing nervously as he works up the nerve to just knock. He doesn’t want to wake Bucky up just to pester him with this ridiculous claim. Hell, that’s all this probably is. He’s just over-reacting. And even if he was right, Bucky probably had just wanted some space today. Why is this stressing him out so much?

“Are you gonna stand there all day, or are you gonna knock or something?” a voice says from behind the door, and Steve just curses under his breath. Of course Bucky knew he was there. He opens the door slowly, peeking inside. The sparsely decorated bedroom is dark, but the light from the hallway allows Steve to just make out Bucky’s silhouette sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard.

“Is it okay if I come in?” he asks hesitantly. God, why does he sound like a nervous schoolgirl right now? This is _Bucky_. He shouldn’t be this nervous talking to him. But after today, he’s a bit on edge, tiptoeing around his friend. If he did something that made Bucky want to avoid him, then he wants to know what it is and doesn’t want to accidentally do it again.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Bucky says, his voice partly amused, partly curious. The tone of his voice is so friendly and open, and it almost makes Steve want to duck back out, say it was nothing, curse himself for thinking any differently. But Steve walks into the room anyways, quietly closing the door behind him, darkness enveloping the room. The small amount of light bleeding under the door shows him the vague outline of the bed and dresser on the far side of the room, but nothing else. He stands by the door for a few moments, almost afraid to break the silence that has settled so quickly in the room. Bucky is the one to break it, clearing his throat. “You gonna just stand there? Or you gonna come sit?” There’s a sound, like a muffled tapping, and Steve realizes it’s Bucky patting the bed.

“Yeah, sorry,” Steve says, walking towards where he knows the bed is, going off of the shadow he can barely make out. He sits down, the mattress soft beneath him, sheets pulled taunt (Bucky must be sitting on top of the sheets and not under them, so he wasn’t sleeping).

“So what’s on your mind?” Bucky’s voice is casual, and Steve realizes it’s too casual, like he’s forcing it. He decides to just ask.

“Have you been avoiding me?” Steve asks, finally feeling the light weight in his chest lift a bit now that the question is out in the open.

A minute passes, and Bucky hasn’t said a word, the only sound in the room coming from their own breathing and the quiet hum of the AC. Steve slowly begins to regret even asking, his mind assaulting him with thoughts of how needy he sounds.

“I’m just gonna go,” Steve says, standing to leave. “Sorry I bothered you—”

“Wait,” Bucky says, his voice soft but quick, almost desperate. It stops Steve in his tracks, forcing him to sit back down on the bed. “I… I didn’t mean to.” His voice is so quiet, and Steve has to strain slightly to hear him. “I just… **I dreamt about you last night.** And I… I don’t know if it was real or just a dream. And I’m not sure what it means either way…” he trails off, his words dying. Steve gives him a moment, listening to his breathing slow back down.

“You can talk to me, Buck,” Steve says, just as quietly. “You know that, right? You don’t have to—”

“Have we kissed before?” Bucky all but blurts out, and Steve’s chest constricts, his heart stopping in his chest before picking up a harder, faster rhythm. _Does he remember…_ “In the dream, we were both drunk, though I don’t remember if there was a reason. You were small, like before the serum, maybe a few years earlier. You had asked me to teach you how to dance, and you kept stepping on my toes, and both of us were stumbling around, cursing and laughing. And at one point we got really close, and I remember looking at you and you looking at me. And then…” Steve is sure Bucky can hear his heart slamming in his chest, the speed of his breathing. Steve’s only blessing is that it’s dark enough that Bucky can’t see the heat he feels rising to his cheeks. “Was it real?” Steve licks his lips, but his mouth is bone-dry.

“We um,” Steve stammers, fumbling for the words. “Yes. We did.”

“Were we—”

“No,” Steve says quickly, too quickly. He shifts on the bed, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in his own skin. “It was only the one time. We were drunk. Your girlfriend had just dumped you, and you convinced me to drink with you. We were two bottles in at that point, and neither of us knew what we were doing…”

But yet, he remembers that moment with perfect clarity. Even through the alcohol-induced haze, he clearly remembers staring into Bucky’s eyes, thinking they were gray like an oncoming storm. How much he wished he had his pencil so he could sketch them and capture them forever, though paper would never do them justice. And he remembers his fingers curling around the tie loosely hanging off of the other man’s neck, glancing down at parted, grinning lips, suddenly wanting like he’d never wanted before. Or maybe he had and he was just then realizing it. And then he was pulling Bucky down, their lips crashing together hard, almost painfully, but then he’s kissing Bucky, and Bucky is kissing him back softly, the other man’s fingers threading though his hair almost tenderly. But it’s not what Steve wants, and he deepens the kiss, parting Bucky’s lips with his own and tasting alcohol and mint, pulling Bucky closer so that their bodies are flush, and the moan that rumbles through Bucky’s chest sends a shiver right up Steve’s spine. Bucky’s hands are warm when they snake under his shirt and up his back, and god, why hadn’t they done this sooner? Why hadn’t they—

Steve remembers pushing Bucky away, stumbling back, his own shock mirrored on his friend’s face, lips red, pupils dilated, mouth still parted, his own shirt hiked up in the back. And they had stared at each other for a long time, neither sure what to do, what this meant. Steve tried to brush it off as just being drunk, but he knew, remembered how _right_ it had felt, how easily they had moved together, lips and hands and body.

But he had never told Bucky this. No, he would _never_ tell anyone, because it was only one time, and they were drunk, and he was not… He _absolutely_ was not…

But these are new times, and that kind of thing isn’t as taboo as it had once been. Two guys being together wasn’t a rare and strange thing now, and maybe if he accepted that… Maybe if he could tell Bucky…

“Could we… um,” Bucky says quietly, interrupting Steve’s thoughts. “Could we try it again?” Steve’s breath catches in his throat. “I mean, only if you want to,” Bucky says quickly, stumbling over his words. “We don’t have to. I just thought that, if you wanted to, we could try…”

But then Steve’s moving, feeling his way to the headboard in the dark, his heart pounding even harder now. Bucky’s silent when Steve reaches him, and Steve swears the other man’s breathing is too fast, just as nervous as he is. He reaches out to where he thinks Bucky is, his fingers brushing against long hair and skin, then a nose, a cheek, hand curling around the back of Bucky’s neck, guiding him forward. But Steve hesitates.

“Are you sure?” Steve whispers, Bucky’s breath touching his lips, so close. And he would say it’s like that time over seventy years ago, but this is so different, so much more intimate and not on-the-spot. He’s sober, and god does he still want this, want to kiss him again. Feel lips on lips and see what he tastes like now after all these years.

“Shut up,” Bucky whispers, closing the distance, finding the corner of his mouth before meeting his lips. The kiss is soft, searching, curious, less erratic than the first time. Bucky’s lips are slightly chapped, and the slightest bit of stubble rubs against Steve’s face. Steve deepens the kiss, but it never turns desperate like the first one had. They’re learning each other, moving slow and deliberately, lips and tongue searching, for what, neither of them knows. Steve’s mind, for the first time tonight, is quiet save for one thought. He realizes that Bucky still tastes like mint, even after all these years, and that thought makes him smile.

Yeah, they should’ve done this sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know I'm a day late... Life got a hold of me and wouldn't give me a break... (I also may or may not have binge-watched an entire show, though it was only one season long... Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug and Cat Noir... It's cute... Give it a watch...)
> 
> Anyways... Not completely happy with this chapter... But it happens once in a while, and I'm happy enough with it that I'll post it for you guys.
> 
> As always, I love to hear from you guys. Let me know your thoughts in the comments, and I hope you liked this chapter.


	8. Take My Seat

“Captain Rogers?” Peggy’s voice, polite yet still soft with concern. It drags him back to the present, back to the packed truck bumping down the road.

“Hm?”

“Are you alright?” The truck hits a rough bump, and Steve tightens his hold on the safety bar, swaying a bit on his feet. He’s standing with the rest of the Commandoes, and Peggy and the few prisoners they saved from the Hydra factory are sitting down on the benches lining the sides of the truck bed. Steve swears Peggy had been asleep the last time he looked at her only a few moments ago. But no, she’s wide awake, staring at him curiously. He blinks a few times, pulling her face into focus. It’s more difficult than it should be.

“’M fine.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, and she sounds a bit too concerned, so maybe he should be worried. He’s about to check himself for wounds he didn’t notice, but then he has to grip the bar again to stop himself from falling over, his knuckles white. But there was no rattling sound, at least not that he could hear through the buzzing. _What is that buzzing sound anyways?_ _Did the truck hit a bump that time?_ “Steve?” _Are they hydroplaning, or is his head just spinning?_

“’M fine.” She gets up out of her seat, holding onto the bar right next to him. He closes his eyes as a wave of dizziness hits him, and he’s not sure if he’s going to throw up or pass out. Both options are possible. A cool hand touches his forehead, and he almost leans into it.

“Bloody hell Steve, you’re burning up.”

“’M fine,” he insists. His knees shake, and he ignores it as best he can, only gripping the bar harder to hold himself up. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears, thumping way too fast.

“Steve, sit down.”

“Iz your seat. I’ll be fine in a sec.”

“Steve, something is seriously wrong. You need to sit down.”

“I said I’ll b’ fine. Buck, tell’er.”

It goes dead quiet in the back of the truck, the only sound being the rumble of the engine and the weird sound in his ears. He opens his eyes, and Buck is sitting right there in full uniform like the day he left Brooklyn, in Peggy’s seat, grinning at him, the tan hat tipped sideways on his head.

“Buck, why’re you in Peg’s seat?” he slurs, but then he has to shut his eyes again, both hands on the bar now, his arms shaking too.

“Steve, what are you talking about?” Peggy.

“Buck… He’s… your seat…” His mouth is so dry, and his tongue is like sandpaper.

“Steve, sit down.” Peggy again.

He opens his eyes again, and Bucky is still sitting there. But wasn’t he wearing his uniform? No, he’s wearing a black button up coat (how is he not hot in that? Steve feels like he’s burning up), the top-right button undone, high boots (no, snow boots. Definitely snow boots) with long black pants tucked into the boots, a rifle slung over his shoulder, his hair a wind-blown mess. Steve blinks at him a few times, and then Bucky is standing next to him, and hand on his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

“You look like hell, Rogers,” he says, his voice clear even through the hum in Steve’s ears. “You may want to **take my seat**.” Steve reaches out to touch him, tell him something’s wrong, but then there’s a flash and Bucky’s falling, fingers outstretched, not quite reaching, screaming, falling falling falling into a sea of white—

Steve hits the ground hard.

~ ~ ~

“Steve!”

“Someone grab him! Don’t let him hurt himself!”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! He looked like he was about to pass out. I asked him if he was okay, and he said something about Barnes, then he went down.”

“He’s running a high fever. Someone grab his legs! We have to control these convulsions before someone gets hurt! Carter, what else?”

“His eyes wouldn’t focus very well, his speech was slurring, he looked rather pale, and he—he was holding on too tightly, as if he couldn’t balance.”

“Sounds like a poison.”

“Would a poison even work on him?”

“In high enough doses, yes.”

“What do we do?”

“We’re almost to the base. Until then, we just have to control this seizure. But I think this may be belladonna poisoning. I saw a few bushes near the base. Someone may have coated some knives or darts in the stuff, nicked him with something. Though why it took this long to kick in, I have no clue. That’s the best I’ve got. Radio ahead, tell them to have some physostimine ready when we get back. We need to work fast. This has already gone too far for my liking.”

~ ~ ~

Steve’s head is pounding, his whole body hurts, and if he had the energy, he’d throw the sheets off of himself because god is it _hot_. He feels horrible, and it reminds him all too much of the time before the serum, when he’d wake up like this because of some sickness or another. But now, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. God, he can lift a motorcycle like it’s nothing, and right now, he barely has the will power to lift his own arm. Instead, he opens his eyes, immediately shutting them when bright white light floods in. He groans when the headache gets worse.

“Steve?”

“Peg?”

“It’s me Steve. I’m here.” A light touch on his shoulder. “You’re alright now.”

“What happened?”

“What do you remember?”  What does he remember? They were on a mission, another Hydra base to blow. They’d completed the mission, freeing a few prisoners in the process. He remembers being in the truck for a while, bouncing along the road with everyone in the back. He was standing, like usual. And then there was something, something about Peggy and her seat. And then…

“I wasn’t feeling so great,” he says. He moves his arm over his eyes, blocking out more light. “You offered me your seat. After that, there’s nothing.” He pauses, searching for what happened in that time, but it’s like he’s just reaching his hand out into darkness, grasping for something that just isn’t there. “What happened?”

“You were poisoned,” she says. Yeah, he guesses that would probably explain a lot. “Belladonna poisoning. Trip had guessed that’s what it was when you hit the ground and started convulsing, but it wasn’t until we realized one of the prisoners we rescued was actually one of those Hydra bastards in disguise that the whole puzzle came together. He had an empty syringe on him, and Trip was able to use some of the residual chemical in the syringe to make sure of what he injected you with. We got you back to the base as fast as possible and loaded you up on as much of the antidote that we dared to give you, and we waited. I should probably let Trip and the other medics know you’re awake—” he hears her move to get up, but he reaches out to stop her, opening his eyes enough to grab her arm and hold her there.

“Wait,” he says, eyes squinting, but slowly opening as he adjusts to the light. “How long was I out?”

“Only a few hours.”

“Were you sitting here that whole time?” And he only asks because she looks worse for wear, dark circles under her eyes, still covered in dirt and grime from the mission, her usually tidy hair frizzing. She’s even still wearing her mission attire. He let’s go of her arm.

“Someone had to keep an eye on you,” she smiles, and Steve’s reminded of the fact that’s usually something along the lines of what Bucky ~~says~~ said when Steve got into trouble. Buck always used to look out for him.

“You didn’t have to,” he says quietly. She just leans down, presses a small kiss to his head, and Steve can’t hide the blush creeping across his cheeks.

“Get some rest,” she says, and then more sarcastically, “I expect you up and ready to move at 0500 tomorrow morning.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smiles, and with one last nod, she leaves, turning off the light as she goes, leaving him to himself for now, a little more rattled than he would care to admit. How someone injected him with poison without him knowing, he has no idea, and that worries him. He should be better than that. How could someone stick him with a needle without him noticing? And then there’s the fact that he just can’t remember what happened up to the moment when he woke up here. Peg had said that more had happened, that he had started convulsing. But there had to be more. Something is telling him that there was something else.

He keeps grasping for some memory as to what happened, those minutes he lost. But all he can come up with is an inexplicable sadness, a familiar voice, and an unending feeling of falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh God guys I'm so sorry... I'm only on Chapter 8 and I'm already a week behind on my schedule... School just started on Monday, and I've been so busy trying to get back into a routine that I completely forgot about this... I'm really sorry guys... It's looking like I'm going to have a busy semester, so I may post less frequently than I had originally intended (especially for the next couple of weeks, considering one of my 8 classes will average 15 hours a week for the first 6 weeks)... I'm already stressed, not gonna lie... So if I don't update for a while, I apologize in advance, but schoolwork has to come first... Love you guys, though!
> 
> Anyways, about this chapter... I originally planned it as more of a Steve/Peggy (or Steggy, if you prefer) chapter, but then it sorta morphed into a bit of a Steve/Bucky chapter (poor Stevie...)... So yeah, sorry (not sorry). This was honestly one of my favorite chapters, mainly because of how much research I had to do to find a poison specific to that area of Europe that would have the exact symptoms I wanted... I'm assuming the CIA didn't check my Internet history, considering no feds showed up at my house asking who I was trying to poison... Hehe...
> 
> Obviously, this chapter took place after Bucky's "death" (at least a few months after) and it sorta was meant to show how that would affect our little Stevie (like, say, keeping him so lost in his thoughts after a Hydra raid that he doesn't even notice when someone sticks him with a needle???). Yes, I like a bit of angst here and there. Sue me... Mwhahahaha!
> 
> As always, let me know what you think down here in the comments. Always love to hear from you guys. See you at the next update (whenever that may be...)! <3


	9. I Saved A Piece For You

“Come on guys, really?” Sam exclaims as he stomps out of the elevator on the common floor of the Tower, still in uniform. All of the other Avengers, Wanda and Vision included, Thor excluded, are lounging around the television, various pizza boxes strewn around the room and on tables. “I thought we were going to wait until I got back from patrol to order pizza!”

“That was before you went on a 2-hour-long patrol without reporting back,” Nat says from where she’s curled up on the futon, barely diverting her attention from the program on the large tv screen. It looks like some action movie, and the fast-paced music and explosions fill the room with noise.

“Also, Lucky got hungry,” Clint pipes up from his spot on the opposite side of said futon. The golden retriever perks up from his spot on the couch at the mention of his name, lifting his head off of Clint’s lap to look at the man, glancing at Sam with his one good eye, and then proceeding to rest his head back on the archer.

“I still can’t believe you give that poor dog pizza,” Sam grumbles, shrugging the flight pack off of his back and rolling his shoulders while walking over to the table with the most pizza boxes on it.

“I still can’t believe Tony lets him on the couch,” Wanda says, taking a sip from the glass in her hand. She’s leaning against Vision on another couch.

“He doesn’t shed _that_ much,” Clint says.

“I don’t think she was referring to the dog,” Tony says, and yeah, Sam might have snorted at that, and he swears he hears a combination of choking and snorting behind him as he comes up on the table. All of the boxes are empty.

“What did I do?” Clint exclaims, and Sam glances over to see the man’s hands raised in the air.

“I believe Mr. Stark is still bitter about the holes punched in his wall by a few stray arrows,” Vision intones in that crisp, almost artificial way of his.

“Come on! That was an accident!”

“Bullshit.” Rhodes this time. He was sitting on the floor when Sam came in, his back against the arm rest of the couch that Natasha and Clint were on. Sam lifts the lids of a few of the pizza boxes and finds those empty as well. He’s starting to get a bad feeling. “You were trying to hit a fly without having to get out of bed.”

“Exactly!” Clint says. “The holes in the wall were accidental.”

“I don’t think you know what ‘accidental’ means,” Tony says. Sam glances through a few more boxes, and all he manages to find is a few slices of Wanda’s weird Hawaiian pizza.

“Hey guys,” Sam says, glancing over at the group. “Where’s the rest of the pizza?”

“What do you mean ‘the rest’?” Tony says, looking at a tablet in his hand that Sam hadn’t noticed before. He’s sitting next to Bruce, whom also holds a tablet.

“Did you guys seriously eat _all_ of the pizza?” Sam asks incredulously. “There are at least ten boxes here!”

“Rogers is responsible for one and a half of those boxes,” Bruce says.

“And you all couldn’t manage to save me _one slice_?” Sam asks. He’s _starving_. The patrol had been rough, and he was looking forward to food when he got back.

“I think some of my Hawaiian pizza is left,” Wanda says.

“No offense, but no,” Sam says, cringing a little.

“You can just take the pineapple and ham off,” Steve suggests.

“But the taste is still _there_ ,” Sam groans. He falls back on the couch next to Rogers, draping himself over the armrest and seat-back. “You people are killing me.”

“ **I saved a piece for you** ,” Clint says. Sam quickly sits back up, looking at the paper plate being offered to him by the archer. “It’s cheese, but hey, better than nothing.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” Sam exclaims, taking the plate eagerly and taking a big bite. The taste is different from usual, telling him that they must have ordered from somewhere new. But Sam doesn’t care, quickly taking another bite. “Thanks, man,” he says, mouth still full.

“No problem,” Clint shrugs, a small smile on his face. On that thought, why is everyone in the room smirking at him? “I mean, Lucky licked it a bit, but I guess he doesn’t like this new pizza place—” Sam immediately spits what’s in his mouth out on the plate.

“Your _dog_ licked this?” Sam yells, and everyone bursts out laughing, the dog in question raising his head again and staring after Sam as he runs off to the kitchen to rinse his mouth out. He’s seen that dog lick its butt before, and God he’s lucky he has a strong stomach or he would probably be throwing up by now. Minutes later, he trudges back into the room with his uniform shirt wet and plops down on the couch again, glaring at the plate sitting in front of him.

“Are the Bird Bros officially broken up?” Tony asks innocently, and Sam’s glare shifts to the man as everyone but he and Clint chuckle.

“I hate you all,” Sam says, grabbing the remote and changing the channel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. So, I got a minute of free time and figured I would update for you guys. I swear this hasn't been abandoned. I've just been so busy that I haven't even been able to think about writing. Literally, one of my current classes requires approximately 16 hours a week (at minimum), and that's one of eight total classes. Also have been dealing with career fair stuff and clubs and design teams... So yeah, I'm just a bit busy (and stressed) right now. But, that 16 hours-a-week class should be ramping down soon to almost no work time out of class (it's a manufacturing class, and right now we're in the design report stage, but as soon as we finish this part of the report, all of the work for the rest of the semester is done in class on the manufacturing machines, so no more homework). I plan to get back to writing around that time, and even if I can't do once a week, I still plan on once every two weeks at least. So yeah, more regular updates are on the horizon.
> 
> With this chapter, it ended up being just a short little drabble that randomly came into my head. I mean, you look at the phrase "I saved a piece for you", and how could your first thought NOT be pizza. Then pizza dog/Lucky came to mind, and then I thought about Lucky with all of the Avengers, and then I figured I need to write some Bird Bros in here (not romantically, just a brotp). So, this kind-of happened. I thought it was cute and served as something that is funny and light-hearted (especially after the heartbreaking last chapter... And the chapter that will follow this one... I like some angst... Don't judge me... Mwahaha).
> 
> To everyone following this collection, I love you, and you are the best!
> 
> As always, feel free to comment and let me know your thoughts! Reading your guys' comments always makes me smile! =)


	10. I'm Sorry For Your Loss

“ **I’m sorry for your loss.** ”

It’s what Vision had said to her after the events of that day in Sokovia. After he had flown her out of the falling city and up to the Helicarrier, after he had finished off the last of Ultron, after he had joined her in a holding cell for the days-long SHIELD interrogation that was sure to ensue and she had just looked empty and hollow, already having seen the body for herself, he told her. She hadn’t reacted, had just nodded her head and continued staring at the opposite wall, not saying a word.

The phrase was one that Vision knew was appropriate for the situation, having known of it from his earlier form as Jarvis. But saying it, having the ability to feel that sorrow for another person, was something strange in and of itself. He just assumed it was something he would have to get used to, those emotions.

And so he had told her, partly to try to ease her pain, partly to realize his own ability now to _feel_.

Exactly a year later, give or take a few hours, he found her in her bedroom when the fire alarms had started going off.

It had been starting to get dark outside the Facility, the sun just starting to dip below the trees. Everyone knew what day it was, and Wanda had not left her room, had not made a sound. No one would disturb her, allowing her to grieve for her brother.

Then, there was a prickle in the air, one that Wilson and Colonel Rhodes had not seemed to notice, and something akin to a crackle and a boom sent the fire alarms screaming. He had been the first to trace the explosion to her room, entering to find her curled in the middle of the ashes and flames, red still swirling around her hands, sobs ripping their way from her throat, a slightly burnt picture held close to her chest.

He’d immediately picked her up and rushed her out to Rhodes and Wilson, having them keep an eye on her while he went back to the room and doused the magical flames, saving as much as he could. In the end, most everything in the room had to be replaced, he knew. But he withheld from saying this as he came back out and found her crying against Wilson, his arms wrapped around her, one hand gently running through her hair, telling her everything is alright, that she’ll be okay.

Part of Vision wished he had been the one to do that, though it was not the logical course of action at the time. No, he had done the correct thing he knew, but he still...

He found the picture she had been holding lying on the ground near the couch where he set her down. He picked it up to examine it, finding a young boy with shaggy brown hair hugging a young girl with slightly redder hair, both grinning widely. He’d seen the resemblance, even at that age. But the picture was damaged, warped slightly, whether from magic or heat, and burnt along the edges. He mentally sent a copy to Friday with the message to fix it as best as possible, using old recordings and pictures of Wanda’s room to fill in and enhance the image as best as possible. He’d returned the picture back to where he found it.

A few days later, Wanda was still more reserved than she usually was, so he left the now-framed picture on her night stand without a word.

The next year, he watched her leave her room before sunrise and head towards one of the testing buildings on the Facility’s site. He’d followed at a distance, watching as she walked into one of the explosion-proof rooms and locked herself in.

She didn’t come out until nightfall.

He went into the room after she was back in her bed, finding scorch marks marring the white, now-warped walls. He spent the rest of the night pulling the burn marks from the paint and bending the walls back into place.

The next year, she did the same thing, heading towards the same building, the same room, and again locking herself in, only coming out after the sun had gone down. He’d sat and waited for her to emerge that time, his eyes never leaving the door, something eating at his insides the entire time, willing him to follow her in there and hold her like Wilson had that first year.

He didn’t, and after she went back to her room, feet dragging as she walked back, he went into the testing room and, once again, fixed the walls.

The same thing happened the next year, and the next, and every year he sat and watched, that same thing gnawing at his insides and telling him to go to her. He never did, and every year, he spent the night in that room pulling the black out of the white paint and forcing the rage and grief-battered walls back into place.

Then, one year, when she goes to shut herself in the room again, he puts his hand in the way, stopping her from closing the door, and she doesn’t even turn around. She just freezes.

“Wanda—”

“Vis. Please go.” Her voice is so detached, and it makes that thing inside him twist.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, coming in and keeping the door open behind him. “It’s been years, Wanda.”

“You would know,” she scoffs. “I see you come in every time I leave this room. I can still feel your power in here from last year, trapped in the walls, humming. I feel it every time.”

“Why haven’t you said anything?” he asks.

“What would I say? Please let me torture myself in peace? Is that what you want?”

“No I...” he stops, at a loss for words. “I want you to stop hurting yourself.”

“You don’t get it,” she shakes her head, her voice wavering, the air prickling in a familiar way. “You can’t get it. For most of my life, he was all I had. And then he was taken from me, and it’s my fault because I let him go. I felt... every bullet that ripped his body apart. Every single one, like each one was going through me instead. And I wish it had been me. He didn’t deserve that... I was the one that wanted to volunteer for Hydra’s experiments, not him. He... he wanted to move on... Get out of Sokovia, live better lives... But I... I told him we needed to do this... I convinced him this was the only better life we would find... I brought him to his death...”

“Wanda, you can’t blame yourself,” Vision says, coming fully into the room, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder, but not quite... He lets his hand fall again, watching the red swirl around her fingers. “It was his choice. He wouldn’t want you to—”

“You know nothing about him!” she all but screams, turning around to face him, fire burning in her eyes, sparks flying around her fingertips. “Don’t you _dare_ pretend to understand. You don’t have the _right_ to tell me what my own brother wanted. I _know_. He made his choice, but I let him do it _alone_. We were _always_ together, and the _one time_ I let him go alone, I couldn’t protect him. I should have been there, like I always am. And now he’s _alone_ , when I should be with him—”

“Wanda please—”

“You know what his last words to me were?” she asks, her voice like venom, though tears threaten to spill down her cheeks. He doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything because of course he knows. It was in all the reports. He knows them forward and backwards. “He told me ‘You know, I’m twelve minutes older than you’. That was it. No ‘I love you’. No real last words. Not even a goodbye. Just ‘I’m twelve minutes older than you’. And then he was gone. And thirteen minutes after those bullets ripped through his body and took him from me, I forever became older than him. His last words remind me of that _every time I think about them_. I will always be older than him now. And I can’t... I...”

He rushes forward and wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him. She’s warm in his arms, her whole body immediately going rigid for a moment, the prickling in the room becoming more intense.

“Vision—”

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding onto her tighter, not wanting to let her go, not planning on letting her do this to herself anymore. “I’m sorry I let you do this to yourself for so long. I should have come in here sooner.”

“I am not your burden,” she says, still rigid in his arms. He pulls back, looking her in the eye.

“You are not anyone’s burden,” he says. “Not even your own. I want to help you. You don’t need to torture yourself, Wanda. You don’t need to go through this alone. Please, allow me to help you. Please Wanda.” And looking down at her, his hands still on her shoulders, he sees those tears in her eyes start to slip, falling down her cheeks, her lip quivering slightly. He moves his hands to her cheeks, gently cupping her face, using his thumbs to wipe at tears streaming down. “You don’t have to be alone.”

He watches as, slowly, every barrier falls down, the tears picking up speed, her breaths coming in faster succession, her whole body starting to shake, the energy thrumming in the room now.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she breathes, almost sobbing.

“I promise, you won’t,” he says, and then she rushes forward into his arms, wrapping her own arms around him as the sobs break free, and the energy in the room spikes. He wraps his arms around her tightly, threading his fingers through her hair like he remembers Sam doing all those years ago. She sobs, her whole body shuddering with each one, and he just holds on tighter as the smell of fire (not smoke, just raw, powerful fire) fills the room, darkening the walls as flames lick at the white paint, never coming close to the pair. But her hands, where they rest on his back, tingle and almost burn, though he completely ignores it, focusing on her and her alone, pressing his lips to her hair and murmuring that she’ll be okay, that he’s there, that everything will be okay.

For hours they stand there, Wanda’s tears staining his vest, his fingers running through her hair, her hands burning through the shirt on his back, his murmurs not quite drowned out by the crackle of magical flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah... So... There's that... Sorry (not sorry).  
> I hope that filled your guys' angst quota for the day! It was interesting trying to write this one from Vision's point of view, trying to get inside that computer-y brain of his and see how he views the world and deals with his new sentience. Especially with his feelings towards Wanda...  
> The prompt "I'm sorry for your loss" just immediately made me think of Wanda, and the phrase just kind-of struck me as something Vision/JARVIS would say, so I went with it and just let the story take me where it wanted to go. This is what I ended up with, so I hope you guys like it!  
> Again, I apologize for the late update... Life just isn't slowing down like I had hoped, and honestly, most days I'm just coming home from class/group meetings, doing my homework, and going to bed... I'm just ALWAYS exhausted anymore, and I sort-of just want this semester to be over... So yeah, I haven't actually written anything in a while... My whole "always 10 chapters ahead" thing is sort-of out the window at the moment... I'm technically 8 chapters ahead, but 3 of those chapters are unfinished because I got a bit stuck on them and decided to move on and go back to them later... But even if I can't find time to write, I'm still gonna try to upload finished chapters for you guys. I'm so happy that I have people actually following this story (even with my crappy uploading "schedule", if I can even call it that... Lol), and just know that I love you guys for reading!  
> As always, comment and let me know what you think! It's occurred to me that I can reply to comments, so I may start doing that now if I find time (may even go back and reply to older ones)!


	11. You Can Have Half

“Loki, you can play the troll. Sif, you can be the trapped maiden. Volstagg, you can be the knight. And _I’ll_ be the king. How does that sound?”

“I don’t want to be the trapped maiden!” Sif exclaims angrily, stomping her foot on the stone ground. “You always want me to play some damsel, but I want to be the knight! I’ve beaten you and Volstagg in fights many times!”

“And I don’t want to be a _troll_ ,” Loki huffs. Thor always has him playing the evil monster in their games, and he’s sick of it. “Why can’t I be king, and _you_ can be the troll?”

“Because we agreed that it is my turn to pick the game, and this is what I want to play,” Thor says plainly.

“You always pick this silly game,” Loki says. “Can’t we just play something else?”

“We could duel!” Sif exclaims, brandishing her wooden sword with a flourish that she had learned last week.

“We could go have a snack,” Volstagg suggests, though it only earns an eye-roll from both Loki and Sif.

“But I want to play _this_ game,” Thor says, pouting his lip. “It’s my favorite.”

“That’s because you _always_ play the king,” Loki says. “It’s not fair, Thor. Maybe Volstagg or I want to be king. Or maybe Sif wants to be queen.”

“But _I’m_ going to be king, so it’s only fair that I play the king,” Thor says, crossing his arms. Loki wants to correct him, to remind him that he has a chance to get the throne as well. But he doesn’t, opting for the fun way to get at his brother.

“Are you saying that Sif will only ever be a helpless maiden?” Loki counters, and just like he wanted, he can almost visibly see Sif puff up in agitation. She levels Thor with a glare.

“Yeah Thor,” she says evenly. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Of course not!” Thor says quickly. “It’s just that... you’re the girl, so it only makes sense—”

“Excuse me?” Sif raises an eyebrow, her glare boring into Thor, who almost visibly cowers from her. Loki almost smiles at how easily that fell into place.

“That’s—That’s not what I meant,” Thor stammers. Loki can only assume that Thor is glad that the sword gripped tightly in Sif’s hand is made of wood. “What I mean to say is... is...”

“Why don’t we play hide-and-seek instead?” Loki suggests, not wanting this beautiful afternoon to be ruined, no matter how amusing it would be to watch Sif chase Thor around with the wooden sword. “Volstagg and Sif, you can hide. Thor and I can seek.”

“I like that idea!” Thor chimes in, ready to get the heat off of him. Sif huffs and then nods her head, no longer looking so angry.

“From here to the gardens?” she asks.

“That sounds fair,” Loki says, already knowing he’ll find Volstagg in the orchard munching on anything he can get his hands on. “We’ll count to sixty.”

“That’s hardly long enough to—”

“One,” Loki says, raising an eyebrow. “Two.” Sif and Volstagg go running, leaving Thor and Loki alone moments later. Loki stops counting aloud at ten, the numbers ticking by in his head instead.

“Thank you, brother,” Thor says. “I was afraid Sif would run me through with her sword had that gone on any longer.”

“You’re very welcome,” Loki says, still counting in his head. _Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen._

“I never knew that you disliked playing my game,” Thor says.

“It’s not the game,” Loki replies. _Twenty-one. Twenty-two._ “I just dislike playing the villain every time we play. I would like to play the king sometimes as well. You know, I could always become King when we get older. You’re not Father’s only son.” _Twenty-six. Twenty-seven._ Thor sighs, rubbing the back of his own neck.

“That is true,” he concedes. “You are much smarter than me. Father could always choose you instead.” And there’s that little frown, the one that Loki dislikes his brother wearing. He wants it to go away.

“But you are a better fighter,” Loki says. _Thirty-three. Thirty-four._ “And sometimes I feel that Father is more impressed by your fighting than he is by my book-smarts.”

“Nonsense,” Thor says, that frown oddly still in place. It confuses Loki. Usually, all it takes is a little praise to lift Thor’s spirits again. “Father always speaks highly of your smarts. He tells me to go by your example quite often when I fall behind in my studies.” Loki just shrugs and looks away. _Thirty-nine. Forty. Forty-one. Forty-two. Forty-three._ “I have an idea!” Loki glances up and sees that Thor is once again smiling, though it is with excitement. In fact, it’s the exact look that Loki has come to dread, considering it is that very excitement that usually leads them into getting in trouble.

“What?” he asks anyways.

“What if we are both king?” Thor says, and Loki immediately loses count in his head, dumbfounded by the suggestion.

“Are you serious?”

“Of course!” Thor says. “With your brains and my fighting, we could rule Asgard together! **You can have half** of the throne, and I the other. Together, no one could stop us! We would lead the Nine Realms in peace and harmony for centuries! Imagine it...” And Loki does. He imagines ruling at his older brother’s side, coming up with strategies and decrees, letting Thor worry about all of the battling and citizens. It would be nice. He could worry more about his magic instead of trying so hard to keep up with Thor in the arena. There wouldn’t be this cloud of unending competition hanging over the both of them up until Father chooses one of them. Together, he and Thor could do amazing things, he just knows it.

“I would actually very much like that,” Loki says, a bit hesitant to admit that Thor came up with an amazing idea. “Would you really be fine with only half a throne?”

“If it’s you I get to share it with,” Thor says, beaming at him, “of course. You are my brother, and there is nothing I would want more than to have you at my side.” Loki continues to toss the idea around in his head, liking it more and more by the second.

“We would have to ask Father,” Loki says.

“Father will have to agree with us!” Thor says. “He has seen how well we work together. Having us both as Kings would only make sense! He’ll have to let us do it.” Thor is smiling at him, teeth on full display, like he’s so proud of himself for this idea. And Loki doesn’t blame him. Maybe it’s the best idea his brother has come up with yet. He thinks on the idea for another few seconds, imagining the Nine Realms under their shared rule. Sif and Volstagg could be mighty warriors, and—

“Oh, we have to go seek Sif and Volstagg!” Loki exclaims, suddenly remembering the game. Thor laughs.

“I had completely forgotten!” he says.

“I’ll go search the orchard,” Loki says, already deciding which places he will look for Volstagg first. “You start in the far gardens and work your way back here. I will meet you somewhere in the middle.”

“Good plan,” Thor says, and off they run together. Loki can’t help but feel truly happy for the first time in a while, finally imagining his own place out from under Thor’s shadow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to apologize now because I know I said I would start updating more frequently, then I never did... Yeah, my bad... Sorta lost all writing motivation, and I'm still looking for it now... Hopefully I figure it out at some point here... Might step away from writing this story for a bit, try out a couple of other ideas I had... I still have some chapters prepped that I'll update on here once in a while... But if something else pops up under my name, you'll all know why... Sorta had a few ideas for Marvel fics... Also recently got really into this show "Miraculous Ladybug" that I might write about... Still trying to figure it out... I'm NOT abandoning this... I'll still post chapters once in a while, just not as often as I had intended when I first started writing this...
> 
> But anyways, about this chapter! Sorta liked the idea of a brief look into young Loki and Thor, seeing them with that childish-innocence. Though, of course Loki's gonna be a little shit, starting trouble with Sif!
> 
> Hopefully you guys enjoyed this chapter. Let me know your thoughts in the comments! I'm trying to respond to comments when I get a chance now, so shoot me any questions (or possibly requests for pairings?) and I'll get back to you when I can!


	12. Take My Jacket. It's Cold Outside.

“Holy _shit_!”

“Stark, I told you to bring a jacket.”

“It was _not_ this cold when we left the Tower.”

“Yes, and it was also _daytime_ when we left the Tower.”

“How are you not freezing?”

“I _am_ a frost giant, if you recall.”

“Right. That must be nice.”

Loki is silent, staring straight ahead as they walk down the sidewalk. Normally, Tony would be worried about hanging around with a wanted criminal in public, going to dinner at a fancy restaurant and walking along the streets of New York. But, when said criminal is able to cast a glamour around himself that makes everyone (but Tony) see a version of himself that Tony has affectionately named “Lucas”, there is really nothing to worry about. Especially when, according to the press, he and “Lucas” have been together for a little over a month now. Of course, it was a bit longer than that. But, you know what they say about closed doors and all that.

Tony rubs his hands together and breathes hot air into them, appalled when he can see white wisps of his breath curl through the air. He crosses his arms and presses them close to his body, shivering. His tuxedo shirt does nothing to keep heat in, the icy wind biting his arms and chest. He rubs his hands against the thin material that makes up his sleeves, trying in vain to get some heat going. He wishes he had worn a full suit like Loki had. _Smart bastard._

“It’s too fucking c-cold. I h-hate it,” Tony says, teeth starting to chatter. “Why did you p-pick a restaurant so f-far away from the T-T-Tower?”

“It has high ratings on multiple websites, and it seemed intriguing,” he says, his voice a bit too flat.

“You j-j-just like s-spending my m-money,” Tony mumbles between chatters, rubbing his arms harder to no avail. He’s _freezing_. Cap will be the one joking about him being a “Starksicle” if he doesn’t warm up soon.

He realizes that Loki didn’t respond to him in any way. The other man is still staring straight ahead, expression perfectly controlled and blank.

“Y-You ok-k-kay?” he asks, tucking his fingers underneath his arms instead, electing to protect the most important appendages he has. _Gotta protect the money makers._

“Perfectly fine,” Loki says, still no inflection in his voice, eyes still glued straight ahead, almost staring at nothing. He’s thinking a little too hard about something, Tony realizes. He does this sometimes, gets stuck on one little thing and ends up ruminating on it for hours or days. And during that time, he’ll close himself off, trapping himself in his thoughts and not letting Tony in. It worries him when Loki gets like that.

“Y-y-you s-sure?”

Loki looks over at him, not saying anything at first. He’s just watching, studying him carefully, his expression still guarded. Tony just meets his eyes, watching him back, still shivering so hard he may just vibrate out of his own skin. But he’s more worried about Loki right now than his own comfort.

Something shifts in Loki’s expression, and then his guard drops, a small smirk forming on his lips again. He shrugs off his suit jacket and hands it to Tony.

“Here, **take my jacket** ,” he says. “Next time, you are going to bring your own jacket when **it’s cold outside** even if I have to bind it to your body. This is ridiculous, Stark.”

“It w-w-wasn’t c-cold when w-we left,” Tony mumbles, quickly tugging the jacket on and reveling in the residual warmth radiating from the wool. The jacket is a bit long and tight on him, but not enough of either to make it uncomfortable. He burrows into the jacket, picking up on the scent of that lavender body wash Loki seems so fond of clinging to the fabric.

“It’s w-warm,” Tony mumbles, pulling it closer around him, trying to envelope himself in it. “I thought you s-said you’re a frost giant. Shouldn’t you be c-cold?” Loki just chuckles, dipping his head.

“What is it you always say?” Loki says. “’Magic is so freaking convenient,’” he mimics Tony’s voice, smirking at him.

“You are scary good at impressions,” Tony says, putting his hands in the jacket pockets. “So are you saying you put a spell on the jacket to keep me warm?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Aw. Look. He really does care.”

“The only thing I care about is your frail mortal body not getting sick. I have plans for you tonight.”

“What kind of plans?” Tony raises an eyebrow. The corners of Loki’s lips simply lift a little higher, and the tip of a pink tongue darts out to wet them. He looks back at the man’s eyes just long enough to see the mischievous glint there. “No need to say more,” Tony says, picking up the pace of his already brisk walk. “How far until we reach the Tower again?”

~ ~ ~

“Holy shit.”

“You are very fond of that phrase tonight.”

“Your hands are freezing... And very blue.”

“That’s not supposed to... Hold on. I can fix—”

“No, no. Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t change them back.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dead serious. It—Oh, fuck. _Fuck._ ”

“I thought you said you disliked the cold.”

“I guess I fucking lied. Holy shit. Why didn’t we try this before?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm not really back to this story yet... Figured it's been a while so I might as well post a chapter that I had written... Sorry guys... I'll come back to it eventually... I am just SERIOUSLY invested in the Miraculous Ladybug fandom right now (seriously, go watch the show... It's so good... And the fandom is amazing... I am just in love with every aspect of it...). I still plan on coming back to this eventually though. I guess that's the good thing about this style of fic: no cliffhangers to worry about, since they're all one-shots! :)
> 
> I remember writing this chapter. It was so fun writing these two being snarky with each other (and Tony being an idiot)... It's short, but I feel like it was cute (and the ending was a bit suggesting, if I do say so myself... *wink wink*)... I may have also butchered up the "phrase of the chapter", but it was the best way to make it work, so NO REGRETS!
> 
> Anyways, I'll see you guys whenever I manage to post the next update. Until then, au revoir!!!


	13. Sorry I'm Late

Natasha is going to _kill_ Tony when she gets back to the Tower. She’ll walk in the door and shoot him in his god damn big head, she swears she will. She would have done it right there and then had there not been so many cameras around.

She’s speeding down the highway in the rental car placed under a fake identity to cover her tracks. Normally, when on an undercover or confidential mission, she would drive around six or seven miles per hour over the speed limit to blend in with the sea of cars around her. But now, she’s doing somewhere between fifteen and twenty over the speed limit, weaving around cars in an attempt to make up some time. She’s getting honked at left and right, and she knows she’s just lucky she hasn’t found a cop yet (such a waste of time to flash the SHIELD badge and blow her cover even more).

She’ll kill Tony.

She had been picking up a package perfectly in disguise, with no civilians figuring out who she was. Sure, the wig had begun to itch a little, and the jacket was a bit too warm for the place, but she was blending in well. She had been halfway out the door, package in hand, when _he_ had shown up. She noticed him the moment he walked in the door, as had the rest of the civilians in the area. With her head down and quick steps, she had tried to use the crowd swarming around him as an opportunity to duck out without being seen. But of course, she wasn’t that lucky, and she wished she had taken out that tracking device that he thinks she doesn’t know is in her phone. But no, she had left it in tact to gain his trust, even if she had to deactivate it occasionally when she had to go on certain missions. She should have deactivated it already, but had apparently forgotten. She blames a distracted mind.

The next thirty minutes had been spent smiling at him and cameras, pretending like she wasn’t about to rip his head off for blowing her cover just to ask about that Italian place the team had gone to a few weeks back that he was craving and couldn’t remember the name of. Of course the excuse was bullshit; he remembered the name, and he would have just called instead of going all the way there. No, he was just trying to make her life hell, if his shit-eating grin was anything to go by.

He must just be pissy that he wasn’t invited to come to this one.

Yeah, she was going to kill him.

She pulls off the highway, pulling into a deserted-looking gas station for a quick pit stop before reaching her destination. First thing’s first, she hides her guns in the different nooks and crannies of the car, away from prying eyes and searching hands that would most likely find their way into the rental car. Then she changes, ripping off the blond wig and changing her clothes into something more moveable, less restrictive. Not her mission suit, not for this. She has to look casual. Finally, she checks to make sure that the package is secure and unharmed by her driving (so stupid, but so necessary because she is _so late_ ). It is perfectly fine, ready for the delivery.

At least _something_ is going right for her.

She’s back on the road a minute later, driving more cautiously on the deserted dirt roads, though not much slower.

One small town and twenty-seven minutes of dirt roads later, she’s pulling up to a barn where the hand-off will take place. Throwing the car into park and almost ripping the keys out of the ignition, she jumps out of the car, package already in her hands. She quickly makes her way to the barn, hoping her window of opportunity didn’t pass.

“ **Sorry I’m late.** ”

“Geez, Nat. Where have you been?” Clint asks, running over to her as she rushes into the barn. “I thought I would have to send a rescue party out for you!”

“Blame Stark,” she says. She can hear kids screaming out behind the barn, and while she dreads the coming hours the slightest bit, Clint seems completely at ease. “He’s a bit butt-hurt that he wasn’t invited, so he made my life hell instead. But he did pay for this,” she motions at the package, “and he sends his regards to the little one.”

“Course he does,” Clint sighs. “Lila took to him pretty quickly last time they were here, said she wants to be like him when she gets older, much to my horror.” Nat chuckles. Lila definitely got Laura’s brains, and Cooper got his father’s wit. Of course Lila would take to Stark. “But anyways, enough about Stark.” He rips the parchment off of the package, revealing a sheet cake from that place that Laura likes decorated with little butterflies and flowers, “Happy Birthday Lila” written in green cursive icing. “Let’s get this cake out there before the kids start a riot.”

“Good idea,” she agrees, pulling it out of the protective box. “I’m not sure I could handle that many kids coming for me at the same time.”

“You’re getting trampled either way,” he says, placing candles all around the cake. “This is just the better of two evils. You also might want to run in the house before we do this to let Laura know you’re here. She might want some help setting up party games.”

“After I see Lila and Cooper,” she promises, taking the cake in hand and heading towards the barn’s back doors, towards the screaming kids who are probably playing in the sprinklers or on the slip-n-slide Clint said he would make.

“Alright, let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~throws chapter and runs away~~
> 
> In my defense I haven't written anything in MONTHS... No motivation for anything right now... We'll see what happens...


	14. Can I Have This Dance?

The year is 1970.

Just last year, America beat the Soviets to the Moon. SHIELD is finally gaining some traction in the fight against communism. Peggy and Howard are co-directors of SHIELD, though Peggy still insists on doing field work. Hydra was wiped out long ago, and no trace of ~~Steve~~ Captain Rogers was ever found. Plans are currently being considered for an official SHIELD headquarters in DC. Howard has a newborn son, Anthony, and Peggy and Daniel are celebrating their twentieth anniversary in New York at the request of their children. Life in general for Peggy is going well.

And yet, she’s standing here in front of Paley Park, and part of her questions the life she could have had if...

The Stork Club used to be a swanky place, though she’d only been in it once just before the war. She remembers the curved, paneled walls that made the rooms seem to flow from one to the other, the large dancing room with the live stage up front and casual dining tables lining the sides. There were so many people there dressed in elegant gowns and adorned in jewelry that probably cost more than her house. She’d gone with her then-fiancé, and they’d left not too long after getting in, feeling out of place among the affluent and the celebrities. But the place had been beautiful, and she had wanted to go back ever since.

She had made Steve promise all those years ago...

She’s finally back now, with Daniel none-the-less. But the Stork Club is long gone, demolished years ago. In its place they’d built, oddly enough, a park.

[Paley Park is gorgeous](https://paperweightethics.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/paley-park.jpg), she has to admit. The huge space is walled in on three sides, and the fourth side opens out onto a street with an ornamental gate allowing for some separation from the bustling crowds of the city. She and Daniel are standing just outside this gate now, looking in. A huge waterfall cascades down the entire back wall, and the bare branches of tall trees stretch up high above the park with potted flowers encircling some of them. Ivy climbs up the other two walls, completely covering the brick. White wire mesh chairs and white marble tables accentuate the surroundings instead of detracting from them. The whole place seems light and airy, completely in contrast with the heavy and busy streets of New York. She wonders how the place could seem so serene in such a loud and hectic place.

She still hasn’t gone past the gate.

_“I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance.”_

_“I’d hate to step on your—”_

“You okay, Peg?” Daniel asks, leaning against the closed gate and watching her, his crutch held loosely in his hand at his side. He’s long since learned how to read her, and he’s looking at her, brow furrowed and lips turned down, eyes watching her face with clear concern. His carefully combed brown hair is speckled with gray, wrinkles forming by his eyes that still sparkle like he’s still that young agent she fell in love with all those years ago, still loves dearly.

He had suggested coming to the Stork Club years ago while they were in New York, and she had vehemently opposed it. He hadn’t known at that point that the place only reminded her of Steve, a distant but still painful memory of that day when the Valkyrie went down. Days after he had asked, days spent with unresolved tension and unanswered questions trapped between them, Peggy told him. She told him all about that day and everything before it, and Daniel listened to every word, even as she broke into tears. He had just held her in his arms, murmuring into her hair that he loves her and that he understands and that he doesn’t blame her and that he’d never leave her, no matter how much she insisted that he should leave her, that she’s a horrible person for still having feelings for a man who’s been dead and gone for years.

He’d never asked about the Stork Club again.

It was Peggy who, after hearing about its demolition, had thought to come here.

She still hasn’t opened that damn gate, and Daniel is still looking at her like he expects her to make a run for it at any second.

She steels herself, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly.

“I’m quite alright,” she says, pushing the gate open. She forces her feet forward, willing herself to walk through the gate and into the park, where a few other couples are lounging comfortably and idly chatting. Her heart is racing, and even though it’s chilly outside, she almost considers taking off her sweater to cool her burning skin and try to clear her head.

It’s so quiet here, she realizes. It’s like stepping into a different world from the one a few steps behind her. The raucous sounds of the city fade, hidden by the white noise of the steadily flowing waterfall and the bare branches scratching against one another in the breeze. There’s soft instrumental music playing from a pocket radio sitting on one of the tables where an older gentleman is sitting and reading a newspaper.

It’s so quiet and calm. Yet, all she can hear is Steve. Steve promising her that dance. Steve saying he’ll just step on her toes. Steve’s voice through that radio. W _e’ll have the band play something slow. I gotta put her in the water. Next Saturday at the Stork Club. Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late. I still don’t know how to dance. I’ll show you how. Just be there. Be there. Be there. I’d hate to step on your—Static. So much static, deafening in her ears. Be there. Be there. I’d hate— I’d hate— In the water— I gotta— Peggy—Peggy— I gotta— Don’t you dare— Be there— Be there— Peggy— Steve—I’d—_

A light touch on her back, gentle, almost cautious, yanks her back to the quiet park. Daniel is at her side, eyes still trained on her, one hand clutching his crutch, the other anchoring her. The pocket radio continues to play softly, though the song has changed. She blinks away the tears that had started to form, taking in another, shakier breath.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asks in a low voice, still watching her with the concerned way of his. He knows how hard this is for her, what this means to her. “We can leave, if you want.”

“No,” she says adamantly. “I have to do this.” She’s going to take another step, force her way in further, but Daniel stops her, repositioning himself a bit in front of her.

“No, you don’t,” he says, with just as much resolve, but still so quietly, as if he’s afraid to break the serenity of the small park. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t have anything to prove. Not to me. Not to anyone.”

“I don’t...” she cuts him off, but then she loses the words. How does she explain to him that she has something to prove to herself? How does she tell him that this is just another way she, even after all of these years, has to let Steve go? How does she say that even after all these years with Daniel, a small part of her still misses and thinks about the man that went down at the end of the war, still wonders about what her life would have been? How does she look him in the eye and say that?

She can’t.

So she just stares at him, hoping he’ll realize that this is important to her, that the only person she needs validation from is herself, that she’s doing this for herself. She needs him to understand, to realize that she needs some closure on that last conversation she and Steve had over the radio before he...

Daniel’s expression softens, the creases in his forehead relaxing a bit, his lips turning with a sad little quirk. His free hand comes up, gently tucks a strand of curled hair behind her ear and lightly touching her cheek. She leans into his hand, the warmth comforting in more than one way. The smile he gives her tells her that he understands, that he won’t ask her to explain herself, that he trusts her. In that moment, if it was possible for her to love him more than she already does, she would.

Daniel glances around the park, and Peggy assumes that he’s looking for a table to sit them down at for a little while. But then he surprises her, murmuring for her to stay here a moment before going over to the man with pocket radio and leaning down to speak privately with the man. Peggy doesn’t have the slightest idea what he could possibly be doing, assuming the man is up to something, as he always seems to be anymore. The man nods his head, picking up the small radio and turning the music a bit louder, the classical music now floating through the space. Daniel smiles at the man, leaning his crutch against his table before turning and slowly making his way towards Peggy, his prosthetic leg a bit wobbly. She rushes over to meet him halfway, not wanting him to fall.

“What on Earth are you—”

“ **Can I have this dance?** ” he cuts her off, holding his hand out to her, stopping her dead in her tracks in front of him. He’s smiling in that goofy way of his, like he knows he’s completely thrown her for a loop, and he would be absolutely correct. This was certainly the last thing she expected.

“Are you serious?” she asks, incredulous. She glances around, seeing a few sets of eyes on them where they stand in the middle of the park’s courtyard.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” he says, still smirking, his hand still outstretched. She takes his hand, not quite able to stop her own smile from forming as he moves in close and wraps his other arm around her waist as she rests her other hand just behind his shoulder. Their dancing amounts to not much more than a bit of swaying to the music, any more movement than that being a bit too difficult with Daniel’s lack of balance without his crutch. But the gesture is enough to send any thoughts of Steve and that horrible day right out of her mind. It’s just Daniel, the loon that is absolutely hers.

“You’re a hopeless romantic,” she chuckles, looking into his familiar walnut-brown eyes.

“ _I’m_ the hopeless romantic?” he asks in a mock hurt voice. “I’m sorry, but who was it all those years ago that all but _flung_ herself on me in my own office and kissed me with such a _ravenous passion—_ ”

She stops him by pressing her lips to his, and he laughs against her mouth, kissing her back chastely. They’ve been together for twenty years, and yet kissing Daniel always feels like the first time, though all the fireworks are replaced with that familiar warm comfort that she’s come to appreciate. She pulls away and smiles at him.

“See? This is what I mean!” he exclaims. “And you think _I’m_ the hopeless romantic!” Peggy laughs, hiding her face in his shoulder, and he places a small kiss in her hair, pulling her closer to him.

The rest of that day, she doesn’t think about Steve again.


End file.
